


Ad Astra Per Aspera

by goingmywaydoll



Category: Reign (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, F/M, Future Fic, where bash got legitimized
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-07
Updated: 2014-06-07
Packaged: 2018-02-03 19:03:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,544
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1754755
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/goingmywaydoll/pseuds/goingmywaydoll
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>or A Rough Road Leads to the Stars</p><p>Something that feels a lot like relief flows through her veins as she watches the crown placed on her son’s head.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ad Astra Per Aspera

**Author's Note:**

> This is in an AU universe where Mary and Bash got married. Bash got legitimized shortly after Francis left the castle. I realize that real life James was coronated when he was a little over a year old, but for the purposes of this story, he is older. He is being crowned king of Scotland because Mary abdicated. Bash and Mary are still king and queen of France.

Mary watches as her son kneels, his back straight, his eyes resolutely forward. Ever the king, she thinks. Bash laces his fingers through hers, soft, familiar and comforting. She takes her eyes away from her son to look at her husband of twenty five years. His bright green eyes are closer to a light grey now, the skin around his eyes wrinkled ever so slightly now that he is past forty years. He looks nothing like the boy who flirted with her by the bloodwood, or kissed her by the lake. He is stiffer now, long acclimated to his role as king. She wonders what he is thinking as they listen to the cardinal’s words echo through the chapel. Is he relieved as she is to release their responsibilities for Scotland? Or will he miss ruling Scotland by her side?

Mary knows the answers for herself.

It’s been a long twenty five years, full of battles and mistrust and fear. She has born it well, still auburn haired and tall. But as she watches her son stand, scepter in hand, crown placed on his head, something that feels a lot like relief flows through her veins. Her brown haired son turns to look over his new subjects as they begin a chorus of “Long live the king!”

Everyone is looking at him and no one notices the small tears welling in Mary’s eyes. His face is impassive, serious and devoted. But his blue eyes hint at the slightest bit of worry, of pride and of stubbornness. Mary can feel the pang in her heart like it was yesterday she was staring into a pair of two very similar eyes. 

Besides his hair, James is the spitting image of Francis. The crown rests perfectly on his curls, his jaw set in the way his father’s always used to when he was trying to look bold and strong. Thirty years is not long enough to forget her first, only, love. She hears him in James’ laugh, in his stubborn protests. She sees him in his wide smile, she can’t seem to escape him after all these years. 

Francis’ face is painted in her memory just as it was when they were young and hopeful and most importantly,  _together_. Neither she nor Bash have any idea where he is, what he’s doing, what his life is now. Years ago, Mary wanted to know nothing about his new life. Now that she has passed her fortieth year and watched her son grow, images of Francis with family of his own slip into her mind every now and then. He doesn’t know that he has a son, that she still thinks of him, that she never stopped thinking of him.

But she is a queen and queens do not have time to heal a heart long broken. 

James strides down the aisle, his shoulders set. Mary feels the weight in her throat, remembering Bash doing the same. He had to look to her for reassurance. The loss of Francis was fresh in her mind then and she later retired to her rooms, locking her ladies out and simply staring out the window, imagining the day Francis was going to be crowned. For a moment, she pretends James’ hair is blond and it hits her with the force of a thousand bricks. He is an exact copy of Francis, the way he wears the crown like he was born to, the way his eyes dance, the way he walks even. She thanks God each day James kept her hair, for if he had even a hint of blond, looking at him and not seeing Francis would be impossible. Not that it already isn’t. 

"Shall we?" Bash asks, shaking Mary out of her mind. She plasters a smile on her face, an action she has now perfected. She loops her arm through Bash’s and follows her son down the aisle. 

They’re nearly at the doors now and Mary’s regal gaze wavers when she sees an oh so familiar head of blond curls. She falters in her step, nearly tripping over herself. Bash looks to her worriedly and she shakes her head, telling him she’s fine. When she looks up again, his head is gone but her heart is still hammering in her chest. She closes her eyes briefly, cursing herself for letting him affect her like this after all these years. Queens do not falter. 

She banishes him from her mind, as she so often does, and steps into the bright sunlight.  
… … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … 

James sits on his throne well, she thinks, as his subjects take their turns bending the knee to their new king. She takes a sip of wine, ignoring the burning in her throat. After all these years, she never accustomed herself to the taste. 

"He’ll make a good king," Bash says, walking up to her. Mary nods, smiling at her husband.

"He’ll make a great king," she agrees. 

"For a moment, he looked like Francis," Bash says, laughing slightly. Mary freezes, her heart skipping a beat. Bash never mentions Francis. She swallows.

"Really?" she asks, hoping her voice sounds steadier than she feels. "I hadn’t noticed."

Bash raises an eyebrow at her. He was always too smart to believe her lies. 

"If he had blond hair, he’d look exactly like him," Bash continues. "One might even think he’s his son."

Bash’s tone is light and Mary knows him well enough to know he doesn’t mean anything from it. But the thought of Bash knowing crosses her mind, and not for the first time. The only thing James has that resembles Bash is his hair, and Mary is sure he got that from her. But if it means her son can be king and she keeps her head, she’ll say he looks like Bash. 

"Yes, it’s—" Mary’s sentence cuts off as she returns her eyes to her son. She can see the new king smiling down at one of his subjects and all she can see is the back of the subjects head.

That doesn’t mean she doesn’t recognize him. 

She knows Bash sees him too, because suddenly his hand is in hers tightly and he is stiff as a rod. After all these years, Francis is still a sore spot her husband. 

With her heart beating so loud she swears someone can hear, she approaches the throne, desperate to get just a glimpse of him. All logical thought has vanished from her mind as she comes to stand beside their son. Francis’ eyes flicker to her within seconds, still attuned to her movements. She keeps her back straight, her face impassive. 

"James," she says, and is surprised when her voice comes out strong. "You are doing so well."

James sends her a reprimanding look, like he’s still young and embarrassed by his mother.

"Your majesties," Francis says, bowing his head to Bash and Mary. "Congratulations on this joyous day."

He sounds the same, she realizes. Yes, his voice is deeper than it was and throatier too, but he still sounds like Francis. His hands are calloused, his face lined. Like Bash, his eyes are greyer and his hair even has several streaks of grey. He’s not the boy who swung her around in the gardens, elated at the prospect of their marriage. His clothes are not quite so regal, but it looks like he’s done well for himself. It makes her happy, to know she didn’t completely tear apart his life as well as his heart.

"Yes, thank you," she says when she realizes the three of them are staring at her for a response. She plasters on a smile again, putting her hand on her son’s shoulder. "A joyous day indeed."

She can see Francis swallow hard as he looks at her, his brow slightly furrowed and his eyes questioning. Twenty five years and they can still communicate without talking. This could kill her, this could ruin her but she nods anyways. Francis’ mouth opens ever so slightly but he catches himself and bows to his king, nods to Bash and Mary and walks away.

"Long may you reign," echoes through her bones, an image of a much younger Francis striding purposefully out of the room and hardening his gaze at Bash and Mary. 

The next subjects blur in Mary’s mind, the image of Francis’ face when she nodded imprinted on her memory. She tries, oh she tries to watch her son, but Francis’ grey streaked hair keeps reappearing in her mind’s eye and her eyes irresistibly search the room for another flash of him.

But as the last of the subjects pay their respects to James and the musicians put away their instruments, Mary is forced to accept that she is going to spend the rest of her years without another sight of him.  
… … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … …

"Mother?" James asks when the last of the guests have left his feast.

"Yes?" she asks, trying to hide the tiredness in her tone. 

"That man," he says, slowly, wondering if he should continue, "Who was he?"

"Which man?" she asks in a light tone, like she is discussing the weather. In truth, she worries. James has gotten good at telling when she is lying and she knows that more questions lead to more answers. Answers she cannot provide. 

"You know which," he says, fixing her with a look.

"Why are you not asking your father about him?" Mary asks, hoping the least she can do is divert his questions.

"Because Father didn’t react the way you did," he says simply. Mary cannot help but smile—she raised Francis’ son, didn’t she? 

"He was just a subject. Why do you ask?"

"You know I don’t believe that," James says, ignoring her question. "Why else would you look like you saw a ghost?"

Mary cracks a smile. A ghost, yes.

"James," Bash’s voice rings out as he strides towards his small family. "Why are you pestering your mother so? She just lost her crown today, have some pity."

There is jest in Bash’s words, but Mary hears the tenseness too. He’s trying to guide the conversation away from Francis, as always. 

"Don’t be ridiculous Bash! He’s m—our son." Her slip of the tongue makes her heart drop but neither husband nor son noticed. "I’m proud of him."

"Mother!" James reprimands and she swears he’s twenty years younger and blushing as she tucks a curl behind his ear.

"What?" she asks, smiling innocently. "Are you going to arrest me for treason?" 

"I could," her son challenges. Mary rolls her eyes. He may be Francis’ son, but he’s inherited Bash’s snark, for certain. James’ smile fades slightly. "Are you going to tell me why you two avoided the question?"

Bash and Mary exchange a look. 

"He’s not just a subject, is he?" 

“He’s just an old friend,” Bash says and a certain sort of exhaustion settles over her, creeping in her bones. A friend, Bash said. He said it so flippantly, lied so easily. James looks to her to confirm it and she nods. She can see the doubt in his eyes, watch him look between her and Bash. He sets his jaw and nods.   
… … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … 

Later, she is summoned to James’ rooms. She tells Bash it’s probably nothing, that he just wants to talk about his first night as the regent of Scotland. He nods and there is nothing but trust in his face.

“It’s funny,” James says when Mary enters the room. “Father barely batted an eye when he lied to me about that man. But you? You looked like you could barely breath.”

“It’s been a long time since I’ve seen him,” and there’s truth in her words. Enough for James to believe her. But he is her son, and a part of the truth isn’t enough.

“Why won’t you tell me who he is?” James asks, shrugging his shoulders and her stomach swings at how he reminds her of Francis.

“I can’t,” Mary says but wishes she could.

“Why  _not_?”

"You remind me so of your father," Mary says after a pause and before she can stop herself. James looks taken aback.

"You’ve never said that before. Everyone always says I’m like you," James says, frowning. 

"I’m sorry, forget I said anything," Mary brushes off, wondering what is wrong with her. This morning, she was a queen ready to pass her power on to her son. Now she is a nostalgic girl again and she hates it, that even now Francis has this effect on her, that she lets him.

"What is wrong with you today?" James asks worriedly as he steps towards her.

"Nothing," she says. "Sleep well, my son."

Mary bows her head to him before walking towards the door.

"He had my eyes," James says suddenly and Mary stops in her tracks. She turns to look at her son, who looks completely perplexed.

"He’s your uncle," Mary says finally, trying to gauge his reaction.

"My uncle?" he asks disbelievingly. "You don’t mean Francis…"

"I do," Mary says. "I’m not sure why he came, we haven’t seen each other for twenty five years. It’s been a long time."

Mary cannot even keep the wistfulness out of her tone.

"Before Father, you were engaged to him, weren’t you?" he asks and Mary nods, not trusting her voice. "Why was Father legitimized?"

"You’ve never asked us about that before," Mary says, shocked.

"That doesn’t mean I haven’t thought about it," he says.

"Your grandfather always preferred your father to Francis," Mary says slowly. "Francis was always groomed to be king his whole life. That’s why I was sent to court when I was young, to befriend him, to prepare for our marriage. I didn’t meet your father until I was fifteen. Francis was my future, he was what I prepared for."

Oh, but he was so much more than that wasn’t he? He was her constant, the one person she could rely on to understand her and protect her. Bash wasn’t raised the way Francis was, thinking of Scotland and France as well as Mary didn’t come as second nature as it did for Francis. She supposes that’s why Francis would have been a great king.

"He’s a great man, your father," she says softly. "He was always so brave. And God, his morals. He was so  _human_. He made mistakes, to be sure. But that doesn’t mean I love him any less. It’s been a long time, but I do love him.”

"Mother?" James asks and Mary looks up at her son. "You said  _was_.”

"Did I?" Mary asks, hoping he cannot hear the falter in her voice. She was stupid to talk about Francis that way. She never should have said anything about him to James. "A misstep."

James nodded, but he doesn’t look very convinced. 

"I love you, no matter what," James says. "You know that right?"

"Of course, my darling," she says and sighs deeply. She underestimated her son, she realizes. He doesn’t know, there’s no way he could deduce it. But he knows that Francis was so much more than his uncle. She supposes that’s all right. Let him think they were in love for a bit. Just so long as he doesn’t put the pieces together. 


End file.
